


Return to Me

by yespolkadot_kitty



Series: Love Letters to James Conrad [2]
Category: Kong: Skull Island (2017)
Genre: Another love letter to James Conrad, F/M, Reader-Insert, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-02 01:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20267965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: A sequel to "Say You'll Remember Me" - please read this first.https://archiveofourown.org/works/19979683/chapters/47299501James Conrad always gets his girl.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadybugsFanfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadybugsFanfics/gifts), [lokimostly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokimostly/gifts).

  
  


“You said it yourself.”

Conrad eyed her across the table of the lean-to restaurant they’d found a table in. Tahiti, where the Monarch debriefing had taken place, was hot and humid, but the beer was cold and refreshing. “Don’t do the voice, Weaver.”

Mason Weaver, crack photographer, determined badass and all around nice girl, leaned back, a crafty look in her eyes. “You’d be surprised how long people wait,” she intoned, mimicking his English-accented drawl.

Conrad rolled his eyes.

Propping her elbows on the table, Mason held out one hand, palm open. Above them, the ceiling fan turned lazy circles, moving the humid air around. “Let’s see it.”

With a sigh, Conrad dug in his pocket for the lighter his father had tossed to him from a train window.

Mason accepted it and ran her thumb over the engraving, then down to the bottom where a sliding panel revealed a secret hidey hole. Using both hands now, she clicked open the storage space and withdrew a small slip of paper.

A muscle in Conrad’s jaw twitched as he watched her unfold it.

“Look,” she said.

He raised a brow, saying nothing.

“Look how many times this scrap of paper has been folded and unfolded, and then smoothed flat. Why does a man look at a piece of paper like this so many times? Why does he handle it so carefully, ensuring it remains safe from the elements?”

“Because he doesn’t have a photograph,” Conrad bit out. “Bloody hell, Weaver. What do I have to offer her? A burned out ex soldier whose skills are mostly centred around causing damage to others.”

Mason let her gaze rake down him, from the top of his head to where his torso disappeared under. “Uh huh. Nothing to offer. You’re completely forgettable.” 

She replaced the piece of paper into the hidey place and passed the lighter back to him. He tucked it in his pocket. 

“Tell me something, Conrad.”

He folded his arms across his broad chest, muscles delineated in the midnight-blue t-shirt he wore. “What do you want to know?”

“Your father. If he’d had an opportunity to come back to you and your mother, would he have?”

He swallowed. “That’s different.”

Mason leaned back in her chair, satisfied that she’d gotten to him. “Is it.”

“You know it is.” He took a long pull on his beer and stood up. 

She grabbed his arm, tugged until he sat again. “What I can’t believe,” she said slowly, keeping her voice low, “is that you haven’t looked.”

He closed his eyes briefly and she  _ knew. _ “You have, haven’t you?”

“A man like me doesn’t go through life without making friends in all sorts of places.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “She’s a teacher, Weaver. She teaches kids at embassies. That’s why she was in Saigon that night, waiting for her next posting. A  _ teacher. _ ” He scoffed. “She needs a normal life. A normal man. Someone who isn’t already jaded.”

Mason sighed and worried the edge of the label on her own beer bottle with the edge of her thumbnail. “You remember one of the last things she said to you? How she didn’t like being told what to do?”

Conrad remained silent. 

“How do you think she’d like the fact that you’re making decisions on her behalf?”

“Women,” he grumbled, but one side of his mouth had started to tick up into a smile.

“Conrad. Don’t resign her to your mother’s fate - of waiting, and wondering. If you don’t want her-”

“Thinking of her kept me going on that Island,” he said starkly. “You have no idea-”

Mason slammed her hand down on the table and had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch in surprise. “I do have an idea, actually. I  _ do _ know what it’s like to be left. Why do you think I’m so anti-war? Get your head out of your ass,  _ James _ . And go get her.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conrad returns, but will he be too late?

The day starts out like any other.

You set out your lesson plans for the kids, making sure you include the brightest and also the ones struggling. Most of the kids here have an entitlement complex; their parents are well to do ambassadors short of time but with plenty of money. You spend many of your evenings tutoring a few of the kids in addition to your day job teaching.

You have three weeks left in this six month posting.

Then - you have no idea where you’ll be.

_ He hasn’t come. _

You refuse to entertain the fact that he’s dead. No. You’d rather think of him alive, having moved on from you, than lying in a ditch somewhere, leg blown off or bones shattered.

_ What did we really have, anyway? Sex? _ Because obviously a man like him couldn’t get sex wherever he wanted.

You wash your face in the bathroom mirror and roll your eyes at yourself. Nearly six months without a word, and yet you can’t forget him. The heat of desire in his intensely blue eyes, the stroke of his hands on your skin, the sound of his voice as he emptied himself into you.

But in three weeks you’ll have to move on, have to forget.

“One day, you’ll wake up and you’ll find him hard to remember,” your friend, one of the other teachers, had reassured you. She’d found you crying in the staff room in a weak moment. Instead of laughing, she’d told you she’d met her husband in a whirlwind romance and she understood how you felt.

That made it worse, somehow.

What you felt for James Conrad wasn’t love. It was too soon for that. But you wanted to give love a  _ chance. _

The day passed slowly - it was Friday, and knowing the weekend was coming, the preteens wanted out of the class room and into the glorious summer weather of Sydney. A McDonald’s had recently opened, the city’s first, and the class were twittering about it all break time. You predicted several fast food addictions by Monday, but you couldn’t keep the indulgent smile off your face. They might be entitled and sometimes frustrating to teach, but they were just kids, and you got to shape the face of their education - it was an honour.

And when your time here was up, you’d miss their voices, their faces, their teasing of you.

The bell rang at three o’clock, and you bid goodbye to all the kids as they filtered out. Your teacher friends had invited you for drinks later on at the Glenmore, a rooftop bar that was usually attended by the well-to-do of the city. You said you’d call your friends later to let them know what your plans were.

Honestly, a stiff drink probably was a good idea. Better than just staying in and reading all weekend.

The weather was sticky-hot as you walked the twenty minutes back to your apartment. Provided by the embassy, it was small but well proportioned and provided all you needed. It even boasted a record player, and you’d collected a few vinyls during your time here, loving scouring the flea markets of the city for the songs you loved. In your first week you’d found a battered copy of  _ Unchained Melody _ and snapped it up, although it’d been a while since you listened to it.

It all seemed so long ago.

You climbed the two blocks of stairs to your apartment, rounding the corner.

Your heart stopped.

Eyes closed, Conrad sat against the doorjamb, arms folded over his chest. A go bag was slung over his shoulder, resting in his lap. Two days’ of stubble graced his jawline, and his hair was just a little long in the front for a military cut, the top curling boyishly. Just how you liked it.

You drank in the image for a moment. His broad chest in a fitted black t-shirt. His legs, which went on forever, hugged by darkwash jeans. Army boots completed the picture of the man you’d been dreaming of for long, lonely months.

“James-” you croaked out.

He snapped to attention in a second, standing in one fluid movement. 

He breathed your name. Your pulse pounded, heartbeat roaring in your ears. You stood there regarding each other for a long moment. There might have only been a few feet of floor between you, but the emotional distance was a chasm. Into it fell everything you’d wanted to say to him over the last few months when you had imagined this moment.

“You came back,” you heard yourself say.

He approached you and dug in his pocket for something. You watched as he took out the lighter you’d seen on the bedside table that night. He slid the bottom open and retrieved the small piece of paper you’d given him. 

You took it, marvelling at the deep grooves in it. The paper had nearly become separated, the number of times it had been lovingly folded and unfolded, then stowed back in that safe cubby hole.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, his voice low, intimate, and unbelivably erotic, “how many lonely nights I held that piece of paper, remembering you, and that night.”

You swallowed, your eyes burning with unshed tears.

He lifted a hand and curled your fingers around the piece of paper, then brought your joined hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “Please, tell me it isn’t too late.”

“It isn’t too late.”

Your words loosened something inside him, and he yanked you to him tight. His go bag dropped to the floor as he held you, his mouth crushing down on yours, claiming you fiercely. You parted your lips and surrendered to the blissful invasion, sighing into his mouth.

“Bed,” he muttered against your mouth. “Before I embarrass myself in your very public hallway.”

Your heart lurched at the thought that this man was out of control around you. You fished your keys from your pocket with a smile.

You definitely wouldn’t be making your drink date with the girls this evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the reunion was worth the wait.
> 
> Get ready for some smut!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A smutty little ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GIRD YOUR LOINS.

You fall through the door together. In a moment of sanity you remember to close it behind you. Conrad reaches for the lock as he continues to kiss you fiercely, snapping the metal shut.

“No interruptions,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You heartily approve.

A siren outside startles you out of his arms. You wondered how you must look, hair mussed, lips thoroughly kissed.

Conrad mistakes your surprise at the siren for reluctance and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His erection is clearly outlined by the fitted denim, and desire pools in your mouth.

“If you’ve changed your mind…” he’s saying, his eyes downcast. You’ve never seen this side of him before, vulnerable, unsure.

“It was the siren.”

He looks up and meets your gaze, as if searching for something.

And he must find what he wants to see, because in the next second you’re in his arms. He backs you against the door and kisses you breathless. You give as good as you get, pouring every ounce of want you’ve felt for his return into the kiss.

You break apart for a moment, both breathing heavily.

For a moment you think how nice it would be to walk him through your cosy apartment and have him take you on the bed. And then you think: _next time._

He stands obediently still as you start to unbutton his shirt. A breeze from outside coasts in through the window, ruffling his old-gold hair, and you smile into his eyes. He looks relaxed; happy, the weight of the world gone from his shoulders.

Greedy now, you smooth your hands over the bare skin of his chest, lightly furred. He smells familiar and perfect and desire twists, hard, in your belly.

He waits as you push the open shirt down off his shoulders. It falls in a soft puddle at his feet and you slide your arms around him, pressing your face to his chest, where his heart beats a reassuring tattoo under your ear.

_He’s back. He’s safe._

And in the back of your mind, you resolve never to let him go again.

Conrad hugs you back, one hand lifting to tangle in your hair. For a long moment you’re both content to stand holding each other, your head cradled in the hollow of his shoulder. You’ve spent more time without this man than with him, but damned if you’ll wait for him like that again. From today on, you move forward together or not at all.

“I was so scared,” you whisper, not sure if he hears you. Or if it matters.

Conrad tips your chin up gently so you look into his impossibly blue eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Was it terrible?”

He bites his lip for a moment, looking away. You can tell from the expression on his face that something serious happened on that island. “I can’t, love. I mean, I’m not permitted to talk about it. But _you _kept me going, you realise that? I lay on that island, some nights, and wondered if I would ever leave. If I would ever find my way back to you.”

His gaze is earnest and you believe him, and suddenly, there’s no more need for words. Whether he realises that he called you _love_ or not, you don’t know. And now is no time to bring it up.

You focus your attention on his belt buckle, tugging the black leather free and slipping open the buttons on his jeans. He shivers as your fingers brush his erection through the denim and the knowledge that it’s _you_ he’s burning with desire for is intense, and dizzying.

You push the worn denim over his hips and quickly add his underwear to the bundle around his feet, trapping him. He could escape, of course he could, but you know he won’t.

You stand up and twine one arm around his neck, pulling him close for a tender kiss, as you wrap the fingers of your other hand around his impressive erection. His cock jerks against your palm and the involuntary movement sends a spear of heat right between your legs. You quickly learn the rhythm he likes. What makes him gasp against your lips, that a quick stroke of your thumb over the head has him biting off a “_fuck_”_, _which sounds delicious, even dirtier somehow in his accent.

He bucks hard into your hand, then covers your fingers with his own.

“I want you,” he says slowly, as if exerting extreme control, “under me.”

And he quickly divests himself of boots, socks, jeans and underwear before scooping you up. With a squeak, you lynch your legs around his waist as he carries you to the futon in your lounge, laying you down on it with tender care. He’s gloriously naked and _so_ hot that you think this must be a fantasy. But as his lips cruise down your neck and his clever fingers start work on the tiny buttons of your prim shirt dress, you know that even your vivid imagination couldn’t conjure anything this perfect.

You let your eyes close as Conrad proceeds to undress you and worship every inch of skin he reveals. Your serviceable bra might as well be the finest French lace for the way he looks as you. Like you’re the most beautiful woman ever to walk the face of the Earth. Like he wants you above all others.

Your dress lies open either side of you as Conrad pushes your bra up over your breasts, impatient to feast on you. His stubble brushes the sensitive skin there, sending tingling waves directly to your centre.

His mouth makes contact with your nipple and you arch into the stroke of his tongue. He dallies with you there for a moment that seems to stretch. His cock is heavy and insistent against your thigh, but he’s unhurried, skimming that clever mouth down over your stomach to the line of your plain white panties.

Conrad glances up, making eye contact with you. His gaze is dark with lust and your stomach clenches in sweet anticipation.

Taking his time, he leans up on one elbow and first strokes you through the cotton, moving his finger in ever decreasing circles until you’re panting, your fingers clenching in the futon cover.

“Please,” you breathe.

He arches a brow, a smile tugging at the corner of that gorgeous mouth.

“Conrad,” you grit out.

He finally makes a move, easing the underwear down your legs. He slips your shoes off too, letting them land without noise on the rug under the futon.

“This,” he murmurs as he moves over you again. “This kept me alive on that island. The thought that if I lived, I could have this again. With you.”

And then _finally, finally,_ he slides his fingers inside you, that clever thumb worrying your clit, and as he teases and presses you come apart underneath him, his name like a prayer on your lips.

He kisses you softly, just a brush of his lips on yours, and you lay, boneless and dreamy, on the futon as he covers himself with a condom and returns to you. He settles himself between your legs and you instinctively wrap them around him.

You both sigh contentedly as he sheathes himself fully inside you. When he’s buried to the hilt, you tilt your hips, squeezing your muscles around him.

His hips jerk forward and he hisses your name. “I want you too much to be gentle.”

At his raspy words fresh desire stirs inside you. “Then don’t be.”

Capturing your mouth in a fierce, possessive kiss, he does as promises. He claims you fast and hard and urgent, anchoring himself with a hand on your thigh as he thrusts. You give as good as you get, lifting your hips to meet each and every one of his thrusts into you. You can tell he’s close. His breathing is erratic. The pressure inside you is coiling tighter and tighter, too, and Conrad knows it.

He slides a clever hand down your body to tease your most sensitive spot. As you gasp his name, he goes completely still for a moment, head thrown back in pleasure, before he empties himself into you.

Afterwards, you draw lazy circles on his back as his welcome weight presses you into the mattress of the futon.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his shoulder.

He smiles against your hair. “You’re _quite _welcome.”

“Not for that,” you laugh, idly tracing your fingers up and down his back. You indulge yourself by giving that gorgeous butt a squeeze, too, and Conrad shivers, ticklish. “For returning to me.”

He huffs contentedly, nuzzling your neck.

Outside, the weekend’s just getting started in downtown Sydney, bottles being popped open, dancing, revelry.

But for now, you have all the fireworks you need, right here in your arms.


End file.
